Journey With the Comet

by Dana Wayne Haley

  Many of those products were manufactured in the thriving city of Bangor: a city that at that time was known as ‘the Lumber Capital of the World’, and one that was thought to be well on its way to becoming as vital to the growth of the still young United States as any city within its borders, thanks in large part to the industrious lumberjacks who were seen as the vital first cog in the wood trade.

  —1—

  As a kid, Murdock had read fantastic stories of legendary lumberjack Paul Bunyan, and heard from Canadians returning from the yearly log drives that Bunyan was indeed as real as real could be and that he was born and raised in Bangor. Not knowing if they were being truthful or were just pulling his leg—he suspected the latter—Murdock quizzed the old Indian about that.

  “Tell me what you know about Paul Bunyan,” he said. “Was he real or just a figment of some writer’s imagination?”

  “Oh, he was real all right,” the Indian replied. “The things they wrote about him may have been a mite exaggerated, but according to my father they didn’t need to be. He was an impressive man in his own right.”

  “Your father knew him?” Murdock queried.

  “Oh yes, he told me manys-ah-story about ole Paul. He was a giant of a man who could do the work of three lumberjacks. My father said he never knew anyone who could put away the food that ole Paul could. He was over 250 pounds and stood six-foot-and-ah-half. My grandfather knew his parents, and they told him Paul was twelve pounds and over twenty inches at birth, with huge hands and feet. He headed out west when the lumberjack trade slowed down here—to Michigan and Minnesota, I believe.

  “They say he didn’t want to leave Maine, but when push came to shove ole Paul had no choice if he wanted to keep making a living as a lumberjack.”

  Murdock couldn’t believe that Paul Bunyan was actually real.

  “What about his blue ox?” he joked.

  “Well, he had an ox, but I doubt it was blue,” the Indian quipped. “Unless he painted it. I’ve heard tell of blue grass in Kentucky, but a blue ox in Maine is a little more than even I can swallow.”

  Murdock and the old Indian laughed.

  “It’s hard to imagine a man like him,” Murdock said.

  “Sure is,” the Indian agreed. “Even so, as strong and as skilled as Paul was, the other lumberjacks and rivermen in this area are no slouches either. As far as I know, they’re unrivaled anywhere.”

  —2—

  Bangor’s illustrious reputation as ‘the Lumber Capital of the World’ was well-earned thanks to the many hard-working lumberjacks and daring rivermen who toiled along the Penobscot. For it was the former who, during the winter months, felled, trimmed and hauled large trees to the frozen river as logs; and, once there, it was the latter who drove and steered those logs downstream when the inevitable spring thaw permitted. Hence, their unique name: ‘river-drivers’. Though in reality the real log-driver was the Penobscot River, the fearless river-drivers were often required to give the mighty river just a little, albeit crucial assistance, especially during the first leg of the drive down the fast-moving river, when the giant logs were nothing but a massive free-floating mess that more often than not became jammed at its narrower parts, requiring the muscular river-drivers to skillfully break up the jam; although, skill often had to be thrown out the window in favor of brute force.

  As a result of those jams, many courageous or some might even say foolhardy men died from accidental drowning, or from being crushed between massive logs when they fell into the water during the April-May drives, usually while trying to clear a jam, an everyday occurrence among the brave river-drivers. Consequently, their feats became legendary, and the locals often gave them names to reflect those feats. The best-of-the-best of those courageous rivermen were aptly called the “Bangor Tigers”, partly to acknowledge their base of operation, but mainly because of their aggressive nature when it came to driving logs down the sometimes-unforgiving river.

  Further downstream, on the next leg of the drive, the river-drivers had it much easier because the logs were of necessity separated according to an owner’s identification mark that was branded into each log—similar to the way cowboys of the Old West branded cattle—and then chained together as gigantic log rafts, to make it the rest of the way down to mills located a few miles upstream from Bangor: in towns like Old Town, Orono, and Veazie on the west side; or Milford, Bradley, and Eddington on the east side. After being processed at either pulp or saw mills, the wood products once again made their way to the Bangor Freight Station where they were loaded onto trains or ships, or occasionally onto a wagon, in the case of a short overland shipment.

  —3—

  In addition to the shipment of wood products, there were also shipments of complimentary items, such as saws, axes, splitters, woodstoves and furnaces; as well as other items like iceboxes and refrigerators, tin products, leather goods, bricks, and a multitude of other useful products. Given the vitality of the area, it was no wonder in those days that Bangor was a haven for daring entrepreneurs. There were businesses started almost daily to take advantage of the area’s ‘wood bonanza’; and Brewer, the rival city across the river from Bangor, had its share of good fortune too, with many companies—like shipbuilders and paper mills—likewise prospering. But wood wasn’t the only river related product that Bangor was known for, because ice that was chopped from the frozen parts of the Penobscot River and Kenduskeag Stream during the winter months, and then shipped to all parts of the globe, had the reputation of being the purist ice in the world, and thus was in high demand. And that reputation was likely one of the reasons the manufacture of iceboxes and refrigerators in the foundries of Bangor was also so lucrative.

  With all the products to be shipped, at times the Penobscot was filled with so many ships that one could almost walk from Bangor to Brewer on their decks; and when the old Indian told that to Murdock, the Canadian had trouble believing it.

  “That seems like a stretch,” he said.

  “Maybe a little, but not much,” the Indian replied. “In fact, when I was a kid—maybe 11 or 12—I decided to test that theory, so I hopped on the ship closest to shore and made my way to the other side of it.

  “One of the crew asked me what I thought I was doing, and I told him I heard you could get to Brewer by walking on the decks of visiting ships and that I planned to do it.

  “Well, he laughed and yelled to the ships next to him that a young Indian lad wanted to walk across the ships in order to get to Brewer.

  “‘I hope the lad has long legs,’ someone yelled back.

  “Anyway, everyone thought my idea was hilarious and they wanted to see if it could be done, so they decided to help me. Some of the ships were close enough that I could leap from one to the other, but many were not, so the crew jury-rigged swing ropes or boardwalks for me. It took about a half-hour, but I actually did it.”

  “Weren’t most of the boats moving?” Murdock asked.

  “Oh yes,” the Indian said, “except the ones docked on the sides of the river; and the smaller ones temporarily docked to the docked boats. Even the ships that weren’t docked needed to navigate very slowly, so crossing them wasn’t that hard. Others agreed to slow up and some almost stopped to let me cross. Anyway, that’s why it took me a half-hour to cross over.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Murdock said. “I was quite daring as a youngster, but nowhere near that daring.”

  —4—

  As one might expect, because of the noted ‘wood bonanza’ there was no shortage of work in Bangor and surrounding areas; and there was no shortage of employment companies to help young men and women find that work. Many of them were located in the impressive three-story Exchange Building, which sat on the corner of State and Exchange. That was Murdock’s original destination on his first day in Bangor, but after spending over an hour talking to the amiable old Indian it was going on noon and he decided to g
et something to eat before heading there.

  “Can you tell me where I can get a bite to eat?” he queried the old Indian. “Someplace within walking distance, and not too hard on the wallet.”

  “I hear tell Judy’s restaurant is about as good as it gets on this side of town.”

  “Thanks,” Murdock said. “Where might that be?”

  “Well, if I were a wise-acre, I could tell you that it might be anywhere. But since my ma didn’t raise me that way, it’s on the corner of State and Essex Street.”

  “How might I get there?” Murdock asked.

  “Just cross Washington, take a right, and keep ah’goin’ until you run into Hancock. Turn left onto Hancock, and then take the first street on the right—that’s Essex Street. Take Essex past York, and you’ll come to State Street. Judy’s is this side of State, sitting to the left of Essex.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” Murdock said, and then he thanked the old Indian for his hospitality before heading to Judy’s.

  Murdock was already on the other side of Washington when it occurred to him that he didn’t catch the old Indian’s name. He turned to go back, but the old gent was nowhere to be seen.

  “Didn’t take him long to hightail it,” he thought.

  Just then he noticed an eagle flying up the river.

  “Must be the eagle that tailed us all the way from Bar Harbor,” he speculated; and then he turned and headed to Judy’s once again, mindfully following the old man’s directions.

  Within a few minutes the hungry Canadian was walking through the door of a small, nearly-full, family-style restaurant. After ordering a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk, he spent over a half-hour eating, occasionally joking with his congenial waitress. Before leaving, he asked her help.

  “Can you point me in the direction of Exchange Street, Sarah?”

  “Sure thing, handsome. When you get outside just take a left and follow State Street past Pine ‘til you come to Oak and Broadway. Oak’s on the left and Broadway’s on the right. Exchange is at the bottom of a steep hill, just a block or two past those streets. Just what are you looking for, if I ain’t bein’ too nosy?”

  “The Exchange Building,” Murdock replied.

  “Oh, no problem then; even Mayor Chapin could find it,” she joked. “It’s right at the corner of State and Exchange, on this side of State and on this side of Exchange.”

  Chapter 5

  The American Dream

  When Murdock reached the corner of State and Exchange Streets he saw the large three-story building known as the Exchange Building where he would be seeking employment. Not knowing what lay ahead for him on his first day in Bangor, he entered the building with some trepidation, but it wasn’t long before the excited immigrant walked out the door of that building into his new life; thus beginning his pursuit of the American Dream. He took a left on Exchange, walking briskly past York and Hancock Streets toward Washington, the busy street near the Penobscot River that the young Canadian was now intimately familiar with. After crossing Washington he walked a little further along Exchange and entered the Bangor Freight Station where he was met by the station manager and immediately put to work.

  The thriving Bangor Freight Station was one of many lucrative businesses that came into being during the 1800s to take advantage of the area’s economic boom. Although the work at the station was hard, no one ever heard Murdock complain, mainly because the pay was so lucrative: $1.62 per day, a veritable fortune in that era, or as some might say: a laborer’s gold mine. In addition, the work was extremely satisfying; “… and indeed reasonably enjoyable, as far as work goes,” he wrote home. And that was because the muscular Canadian preferred physical labor to sitting behind a desk. As with many rugged men of that era, working in the fresh air of the great Maine outdoors was the thing Murdock enjoyed most, even in the cold and occasionally frigid weather that sometimes made its way southward from his native land, and loading products onto trains, wagons, and cargo ships allowed him to do just that.

  It wasn’t long after leaving his place of birth that the industrious Canadian earned a reputation in Bangor as an honest, hardworking man. He was also known for having a gregarious personality that quickly made him many friends, both at the freight station and throughout the city. In fact, it wasn’t long before he was affectionately called Murdy by his co-worker and closest friend Bobby Campbell, and that nickname stuck with the affable Canadian throughout his life. He met Bobby on his second day of work.

  “Murdock, this young whippersnapper is Bobby Campbell,” his new foreman Ray said. “He’s gonna show you the ropes. Well, I suppose I’ve gotta get back to work; the paperwork ain’t about to complete itself.”

  —1—

  As the foreman walked away, Bobby spoke.

  “Welcome to the Bangor Freight Station, Murdock. I think you’ll like it here. As you no doubt have already seen, Ray is real nice, and he’s particularly good to his workers. Moreover, you can trust what he says. He’s got more horse sense than anyone I know.”

  “Good to hear that,” Murdock said. “My pa always joked that horse sense beats ah Harvard education any day of the week; and he always said that a man with lots of horse sense would likely end up with lots of dollars and cents, when all was said and done. Anyway, thanks for reassuring me about this place. I’m sure I’ll like it here just fine. You been working here long, Bobby?”

  “Goin’ on three years now. Started when I was seventeen,” he answered.

  “I see by the ring on your finger that you’re married. Got any kids?”

  “Yup, a boy and a girl; the boy’s two and my little girl’s one, or will be in a month’s time.”

  “You married young,” Murdock stated. “How old’s your wife?”

  “She’s nearly my age, Murdy. Twenty—come May. Don’t mind if I call you Murdy, do ya?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, it’s getting time for lunch, Murdy. Want to join me on the riverbank?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he answered.

  “Great. We can eat and shoot the bull too. If you didn’t bring a lunch you can buy something from the lunch-wagon that stops out back. I can recommend the egg-salad sandwich. Or you can try some of my wife’s fish chowder; I have plenty. It’s mighty tasty, if I do say so myself.”

  “Thanks, Bobby, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your wife’s good cooking. I’ll get something from the wagon.”

  “Suit ya-self, Murdy.”

  After Murdock bought lunch, he joined Bobby on the banks of the Penobscot. They talked with each other as if they had been friends forever.

  “Bobby, I was wondering if you know the name of an old white-haired Indian fella I met yesterday? He was painting river scenes, right over there by that big rock.”

  “Sorry, Murdy. Can’t say as I do. I’m out here nigh on’ta every day for lunch, and, of course, to help load cargo on the ships, and I can’t say as I recall seeing a white-haired Indian painting pictures—or, any other Indian for that matter.”

  “Well, he must not come around here much; and hightail it before noon when he does.”

  “I reckon so,” Bobby said.

  When Murdock mentioned that he was renting a place on Hancock Street, Bobby gave him some advice.

  “Be careful, Murdy, there’s lots of women on that street who are looking for love, but not the kind a decent man is looking for.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Bobby,” Murdock said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He talked with Bobby for close to an hour and his new friend filled him in on the goings-on and the ins-and-outs of the area. So between Bobby and the old Indian, Murdock was pretty much up to speed on things within two days of his arriving in Bangor. That made him feel more at ease in his new situation and it helped him adjust to his new city and job.

  —2—

 
With work beginning at 5am and ending at 3pm each day, usually six days a week, sometimes seven, Murdock was easily able to accumulate substantial savings in the course of a year. And saving money was something that he did religiously, due to the fact that he had in mind to someday buy land in the country: fertile land upon which to build his home, grow a garden and, most important of all, raise his inevitable family. Yes, even at the tender age of nineteen Murdock dreamed of marrying a loving woman and together they would raise children in a rural setting where life would be as carefree as that in his birthplace of Basswood Ridge. In order to realize his dream he lived frugally, saving money by renting a small, inexpensive, second-floor room in an old Hancock Street boarding house that like his place of employment also sat overlooking the banks of the Penobscot, a half-mile north of where he now worked.

  Murdock’s residence at the corner of Newbury Street, located in the seediest of neighborhoods, two blocks upriver from where Washington met Hancock, although nothing to brag about, had two advantages. The first was its location near the Penobscot where the view from his room was awe-inspiring. Every day he would sit on his small balcony, or alternatively on the scenic riverbank, watching eagles flying above the river, or drinking coffee while reading the newspaper. Even though he enjoyed reading all but a handful of news stories, the thing Murdock most enjoyed reading about was his favorite professional baseball team: the Boston Pilgrims. A second advantage of his room was that it was only a block from Pat’s Bar, his favorite watering hole. Although not one to drink much, he enjoyed having a beer or two with his friends, but mainly he enjoyed going there to challenge Bobby to a friendly game of darts, or at times Cribbage: his favorite leisure activity.

  Also on Hancock Street were a few less than desirable nightclubs that Murdock faithfully avoided. And it made sense for him, or anyone else, to avoid those nightclubs, not just because of the female clientele or because of the excessive prices those clubs charged for liquor, but because you could easily find yourself in the middle of a dangerous brawl. Indeed, brawls were especially common among the legions of sailors who precariously navigated huge merchant ships across the oft-angry north-Atlantic Ocean to pick up a shipload of cargo in Bangor, or among immigrants who eagerly came to Bangor seeking employment. Not surprisingly, it seemed that there were always brawls about whose country was the best, and, of course, there were the more common brawls over women and gambling. Even under the best of circumstances the rowdy sailors and immigrants would be inclined to fight at the drop of a hat, but when liquor clouded their judgment, fights were quite inevitable.